


Crooked

by tarie



Category: Chasing Amy (1995), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/538935">Skee Ball and Darts</a>.  Ron and Harry run into Banky and Holden at a London Comic Con. Things quickly become complicated. </p>
<p>In This Part: Fed up with Banky, Holden takes off to an arcade for a game of skee ball. Harry decides to join him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a week after Holden proposes the menage a trois to Alyssa and Banky back in New Jersey.

The pub door slammed shut behind them, the sound effectively putting an end to their conversation. An awkward silence settled in as they fell in step and headed toward the amusement arcade Holden had passed earlier.

Harry crammed his hands in his trouser pockets and stole a few glances at Holden while their feet carried them toward their destination.

"So," he said finally, unable to stand the silence any longer. Unfortunately, 'so' was all he could think to say, so he repeated himself, then coughed and stared at the tips of his trainers as they kept on.

"So," Holden returned.

"So," Harry said again, an uneasy, uncertain grin on his face.

"You said that already," Holden noted. 

Harry glanced up just in time to see the corners of Holden's mouth twitch, as though he was trying to hold back a laugh. For some reason, this put him at ease and he beat Holden to the punch; he laughed at himself. "Sorry." He shrugged, then pulled one hand out of a pocket to smooth the back of his hair, which in fact refused to be smoothed and just stood on end even more. "Your friend is...interesting," he offered, bringing up the first topic that came to mind. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regreted them. It had been obvious both in the pub and at the Comic Con that Holden and his mate weren't in the best of sorts at the moment.

"Yeah," Holden said slowly, a rather forced-looking smile appearing on his face. "That's one way of putting it. 'Infuriating' is another. 'Big-mouthed asshole' is another. And I shouldn't leave out 'passive-aggressive homophobe,' either."

At the word 'homophobe,' Harry felt a warmth creep up in his cheeks and the pit of his stomach drop out. That was such an ugly word, and an even uglier concept, and he was suddenly uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. Fortunately, he was spared from coming up with something to say to that when Holden announced they had reached their destination and opened the door to the amusement arcade, ushering Harry inside.

While Harry had been in rather enchanting places alive with colour and light and noise before (Honeydukes' and its towering aisles of fantastical sweets automatically came to mind, as did the utter spectacle and madness of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.), never had he seen anything as wondrous and brilliant as this place. The overhead lighting was rather dim, but the flashing screens in the arcade cabinets more than made up for that fact. Along one wall was a row of fruit machines - Harry's brows raised at the price of £1 a round - while along the other was a mad mixture of arcade cabinets of all colours and sizes. Various sounds came out of each machine and cabinet, loud and electronic, and it reminded him of the time or two he had been brave enough to nip into Dudley's room while he was off cavorting about with Piers Polkiss to have a quick go at his gaming stations. Only this was better than that. Here he didn't have to worry about Dudders coming home early and walloping him or whether or not Uncle Vernon would catch him and proceed to bluster at him for twenty-odd minutes, all red-faced and blotchy and bobbing moustache and beady little eyes. 

It occurred to Harry then that he hadn't noticed any skee ball machines amid the fruit machines and arcade cabinets. "Where's your skee ball?" he asked Holden, who was inserting several paper notes into a changing machine. 

"You ought to get those glasses checked," Holden commented, scooping coins out of the return. He paused to give Harry a bemused glance, then shoved most of the change in his trouser pocket. "Skee ball's in the window by the door."

Harry's hand automatically went to his specs, which he pushed back up the bridge of his nose. Then he pivoted toward the door and ducked his head sheepishly; the skee ball runs were right there, large and rather unable to be missed. "Yeah," Harry nodded, feeling a bit like an arse, "It is."

Holden clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder and guided him to the skee ball machines. He studied the machine for a long moment and reached a hand out to the lever, running his thumb along the side as though he were caressing a...well, like how Harry'd seen blokes touch witches in those dirty magazines Seamus kept under the mattress of his four-poster. Harry swallowed hard and stared at the ramp, needing to look anywhere but Holden's fingers on that lever.

"So," he blurted out, then promptly forgot what he was going to say and fell silent.

There was a _plink plink_ sound as Holden put some coins in the machine, followed by the rustling of fabric and the clearing of a throat. When Harry tore his eyes away from the machine's incline to look up, he found himself face-to-face with Holden, who was so close that there probably wouldn't have been enough room for Nearly Headless Nick to slip between them.

"Didn't we already have this conversation?" Holden asked, and Harry felt his cheeks go warm for the second time in a few short minutes. 

"Yeah. We did," Harry mumbled, leaning over to pull the lever. Nine wooden balls immediately rolled into place along the side of the ramp and Harry watched them, very aware of Holden's hand on his shoulder again.

"Do you remember how to play?" Holden's fingers squeezed him gently and Harry almost felt sorry when they slid away to rest at Holden's side.

He held out a hand and made an uncertain gesture. "Sort of."

Picking up a ball, Holden switched it from hand to hand, almost as though he were testing the weight of it. "Well the premise is very basic. You roll the ball up the ramp--" He cut off abruptly, an odd expression on his face, and Harry got the distinct impression that some unpleasant memory had just sprung up on Holden.

Plucking the ball out of Holden's palm, all the while careful not to actually touch him, Harry then began to fiddle with it, not wanting to be rude and stare at Holden if he was having some sort of moment. 

Holden's eyes shuttered and he stiffened considerably, and then in the next beat he exhaled quickly and shook himself out. "So," he said loudly. "Where was I?"

"Rolling the ball up the ramp."

"Right. Next thing you want to do is get the ball in one of those scoring hoops up there. The higher the score, the--"

"Just like Quidditch, in a way," Harry said under his breath.

"What?" Holden asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. 

"Huh?" Harry's head snapped up and he smoothed at the back of his hair, unwilling to meet Holden's eyes.

"What'd you just say?" Holden asked slowly, taking a step toward him.

"I--er--" Suddenly Harry was inspired and skirted his hand down over the curve of his neck to rest at the nape. "I said, just a little crick in the neck; I'll be okay."

"I hate those," Holden said sympathetically, and then he was close again. Harry could smell a combination of after shave and cigarettes on him, and it smelt a lot different than Ron, but not necessarily bad. It was kind of nice, actually. 

"Me too," Harry mumbled, feigning worrying at a sore spot.

"I get them all the time from leaning over drawings." Holden scooted behind Harry, who wasn't sure as to why until he felt Holden's hands, larger than his and not quite as calloused, nudge his own away to gain access to his neck. A question, or maybe a cough, died in Harry's throat when fingers began to work into his skin, pushing at the flesh and spreading tension that Harry hadn't know was there out. 

"Oh," Harry breathed, and promptly dropped the skee ball on his toe. Face flaming, he twisted out of Holden's grasp and crouched down to retrieve the ball. "So," he said, straightening and staring up the machine's incline. "Just aim for the biggest score, right?"

"Right." Holden answered quickly, almost too quickly, and it made Harry wonder just what was going on. It made him wonder, but he wasn't going to ask. He had his own problems and his own secrets, just as he was sure Holden did, and it wasn't like him to pry into someone else's personal life.

"Okay then." Squinting in concentration, Harry stooped over and eyes went from the ball to the lane to the hoop. After holding his breath for a long moment, he let himself go, tossing the ball underhand. The light on top of the machine whirled red and '100' flashed on the electronic scoreboard.

"Not bad." Holden grabbed a ball from the rack and started to take aim.

"Not bad?" Harry repeated. "That's the highest you can score!"

"It's all about execution," Holden replied, then cursed as his ball earned '10'. 

There was silence for a good minute, then Harry couldn't help himself. "Not good. Dreadful, really." Holden's eyes, narrowed and flashing, met his and then they burst out laughing.

Holden sobered before Harry and shrugged. "Jet lag."

"S'that your excuse for horrid execution on your own soil, then?" Harry smirked.

"Actually, I don't need any excuse because I am the Skee Ball King over in America and I have minions who take the blame for me." Holden puffed out his chest and quirked a brow challengingly.

"You left your minion back at the pub," Harry pointed out, "so the blame's yours and yours alone here, mate."

"Left him back at the pub with your minion," Holden countered, and Harry's thoughts instantly went to Ron. Ron, who likely had no idea that Harry felt ways about him that weren't any way a bloke ought to feel about his best mate, especially when the best mate showed no sign of liking blokes. Ron, who was brilliant and loyal and funny and fun. Ron, who was back at the pub probably getting pissed with Holden's best mate and having a brilliant time. Harry frowned and studied his trainers. It was only when a £1 note was waved beneath his nose that Harry looked up. "Pound for your thoughts?" Holden shoved the note back in his pocket.

Harry shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Bullshit," Holden said, eyeing him shrewdly.

"Nothing," Harry repeated stubbornly, picking up a ball and throwing it up the lane, earning '50' more points on the board.

"Riiiiight." Holden threw a ball and raised his hands over his head, doing some odd dance as '100' lit up on the board. Harry's mouth set in a thin line and he watched the celebration, his eyes rounding. He'd never seen anything like it. Holden must have noticed Harry's look, because he abruptly stopped dancing. "Madden. Touchdown victory dance." 

'Madden' didn't mean anything to Harry, so he shook his head. Holden sighed and shrugged one shoulder as if to say 'you don't know what you're missing.'

They played the rest of the game in silence, scoring enough points to earn them quite a number of prize tickets, which seemed to spit out of the dispenser for eons. Holden folded up the tickets and handed them to Harry. "If I said something to offend you, I'm sorry."

"You didn't. I just--"

"You have a fight with your friend?" Holden asked slowly, carefully.

"No." Since they really had only just met, it probably wasn't appropriate for Harry to get into Holden's personal life, but he did anyway. "But you had one with yours."

He heard a high whistling sound as Holden inhaled rapidly, and Harry felt sympathy stir within. God knew he'd had a row or two with Ron in the past, and those had been some of the worst times in his entire life.

"I did," Holden allowed, turning his back to Harry.

On their way to the amusement arcade, Holden had had a few choice words to say about Banky, but the one that stood out in his mind was 'homophobe.' Was Holden gay? Harry was pants at figuring out whether someone was gay or straight. Hell, he couldn't even figure out what he was himself. He'd thought he was straight for years, what with Cho Chang and all that. But lately...he got the feeling that he wasn't so much straight as he was crooked. Birds were brilliant to look at, and he didn't like looking at blokes like that...but he did like looking at Ron like that, look him up and down and stare here and there and at bits and pieces until Harry felt all warm and content inside, like he could curl into himself and be safe, because Ron was safe. Harry was definitely crooked. Or maybe straight with a Ron-shaped detour.

Without being prompted, Holden kept talking. "I did and he couldn't-- God." Holden laughed just then, and it was much different from the laughter Harry had heard earlier. This was low and bitter around the edges and it set Harry's nerves on edge. "I'm such an asshole."

Harry curled his fingers around the tickets and jerked his head toward the prize counter. Holden followed and they stood together in front of the display case, examining the prizes. "Does he think that?"

Holden snorted. "Probably. Yes. No. Fucked if I know."

Harry snuck a glance at Holden out of the corner of his eye, just long enough to notice the pinched look on Holden's face before turning his attention back to the case. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at a picture on one of those temporary tattoo things he'd seen Dudders and his band of mental midgets sport last summer. 

"Tribble," Holden said automatically. "Star Trek. First appeared on the forty-second episode overall, episode fifteen of season two. 'The Trouble With Tribbles'. Air date: December 29, 1967."

Harry blinked. "Thanks."

Looked like a Pygmy Puff to him. There was a selection of colours and, after Harry made up his mind, he gave his tickets to the attendant for a purple Tribble tattoo, figuring that Ron would be fascinated with the idea of having a Muggle tattoo.

"You're not going to...wear that. Are you?" Holden leaned on the counter and Harry caught the forced politeness in his tone. 

"No. Giving this to Ron. He loves this stuff. Thinks it's a pisser," Harry explained, and Holden rolled his eyes and shook his head. 

"Bank's into some odd shit like that, too," he said, then grew quiet again.

"But not everything that's odd enough." The words were out before Harry could think to keep them to himself, and he squirmed uncomfortably.

"He isn't. He wasn't." Holden threw up his hands. "Maybe he is now. I don't know."

A few younger blokes came up to the ticket counter just then, and Harry got the overwhelming desire to go somewhere quiet with Holden. He could tell that Holden needed to talk about this, and Harry felt as though he really needed to listen, not just for Holden but for himself as well.

"C'mon," Harry said suddenly, tugging on Holden's sleeve and dragging him back to a place where he thought they'd get the most amount of privacy - the photo booth. The curtains were already parted, so he gestured for Holden to go inside first. Shoving the tattoo and leftover tickets back in his pocket, Harry then whisked the curtains shut and faced Holden.

Harry didn't even have to say anything; Holden just started talking. He told Harry about Banky, about Alyssa, about how his relationship with Alyssa strained his friendship with Banky, and what had happened - or rather, what had not happened - between the three of them only a week ago.

"Did you-- want to do that, with them?" Harry asked slowly. "I mean, with Banky?" He stared at a spot on the wall just above Holden's shoulder.

"I was going to lose him if I didn't-- if I didn't--" Holden said defensively, and Harry was suddenly very aware of just how small the photo booth was. His thigh was pressed against Holden's, their chests bumped together as they exhaled, and Holden's breath was warm against his cheek. 

"Yes," Holden hissed, then closed his eyes and banged his head on the wall. "Yes. All right?" His eyes flew open and he gave Harry a hard look, one so intense that it made a chill run up and down Harry's spine. "I fucking wanted to do that with Banky. I wouldn't have suggested it if I hadn't. I'm-- It's the natural next step in-- we've been friends forever and--"

Harry let out a strangled sob at that and reared back, his own head banging into the wall behind him as there wasn't room to move back, let alone go anywhere. That could just as easily be him saying those things. He could be saying those things about Ron, and he would mean them. He would mean every word. 

_Oh_.

"Yeah," Harry said thickly, and his hands fisted in Holden's shirt.

Holden stared at him for perhaps half a second before doing the same to Harry's shirt, his eyes flickering with understanding. "Christ," he said hoarsely.

Harry nodded and pressed his head against Holden's shoulder, inhaling the warm scent of him and feeling. Feeling their chests rising and falling together, feeling Holden's solidness and warmth against him, feeling Holden's hips pressing against his, and-- _Crooked. Ron._ Ron's smile and eyes burnt in his brain, Harry coughed and arched up and in and against Holden's hips, cocks rubbing together separated only by denim and pants. Holden made a low sound of surprise but thrust back and somewhere inside Harry knew they should stop, knew he was standing in for Banky just as much as Holden was standing in for Ron but he couldn't stop. He knew he should stop and pull away, but it felt too good and he had been waiting for so very long, so he snaked his free hand back and wedged it between Holden and the wall, grabbing Holden's ass and yanking Holden closer against him. 

Dimly Harry became aware of voices outside the photo booth. People were probably waiting to get in but they were just going to have to continue waiting because Harry was-- Holden was-- _they_ were-- Holden was hot and firm and breathing heavily in his ear. Harry couldn't stand it, couldn't take it. The snapping of his hips sped up and he was whimpering while Holden was grunting and then he crested. He crested and then crashed, slumping against Holden, panting as though each breath might be his last.

Holden's grip on Harry's jumper let up just as someone knocked on the outside of the photo booth, causing Harry's head to snap up. 

"Give us a minute," Holden said, one hand reaching out to hold the curtains closed.

"Thanks." Harry leaned back against the wall and pulled at the hem of his jumper.

"You need to tell him, you know."

"You need to tell him, you know."

"I know," they said at the same time, and Harry swallowed against the lump that had risen in his throat.

"We ought to get back to the pub," Holden said and Harry nodded.

Right then Harry wanted nothing more than to see Ron, to see those eyes and that smile in person. He needed to see those things and he needed to tell Ron-- tell him--

He needed to tell Ron that he was a little bit crooked.


End file.
